The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Read online

  “Bloody hell, Broc,” Errol said. “The first thing he’s going to do, if his men attack Dunyvaig, is to strip us all naked.”

  Broc stood tall, fists set on his hips, legs braced apart. “Let him. He’ll see I speak the truth.”

  Errol laughed, a curse floating up into the night. Cullen leaned out against the wall, watching the patch of black over the trees to the east where the tip of Jura Isle and the ocean buffered them against the English. Could more be rowing across even now? Bloody hell, he was becoming Uncle William with his worry.

  “Not even a chuckle,” Errol said, leaning, his arms crossed. He met Cullen’s gaze. “Must be bad.”

  Broc took up the other side of Cullen. “The lass furious? Did ye tell her I am sorry?”

  “Aye,” Cullen said. “And she is still furious, though I can tell only by the sharpness of her gaze.”

  “She holds her emotions in check,” Errol said, his fingers absently running down the scabbed scratches from Beatrice. “Not like the usual lass.”

  Cullen watched the moon shine out for a moment before another cloud tried to erase its glow from the sky. “She’s like a warrior in battle,” he murmured. “I think she’s been in many.”

  “Battles?” Broc asked. “Doubtful.”

  “Not the ones we fight out in the open,” Cullen explained.

  Errol sniffed, wiping a knuckle under his nose. “More like the battle she won against Beatrice in the gardens.”

  Cullen let his gaze scan the edge of Islay until it disappeared to the southwest. The smell of hearth fires floated upward, reminding him of the people who slept below in the village, the people he had sworn to protect. Who depended on him to keep the English from destroying their world. Would his oath to Rose chip away at the one he’d made when he’d accepted his grandfather’s blessing to be chief?

  “What do ye think happened to her?” Broc asked.

  Cullen rubbed his face and turned from the view. “Something I will not let happen again.”

  The wind blew around the edge of the keep, bringing a whispered wail. “Even if it causes England to invade Islay?” Errol asked, sounding nothing like his father, yet representing him well.

  “It will not come to that,” Cullen answered with finality, but Errol didn’t pick up on his tone or ignored it.

  “It very well could if they find out she’s French, and we are harboring her,” Errol said. “They won’t believe that we didn’t know from where she came. The English captains are tasked with finding reasons for King Henry to take our lands. If they think the MacDonalds of Islay favor the French and are willing to give them an outpost for attack, they will invade us, kill our people, take our lands, at the very least throw us off our island.” He paused, and his gaze sought Cullen’s. “Despite her beauty and probable innocence, Rose is a danger to our clan.”

  Errol had just spelled out Cullen’s biggest fear, fear that he would fail as a leader and bring his clan to ruin. “I will take her away from here before any of that happens,” Cullen threw out.

  “Och,” Broc said. “Ye best think that through, for if ye leave, William and Farlan will likely take over the clan, William as chief. And except for Errol coming from the old man’s seed, I don’t think William will do anything good for Islay. Ye better think long on that. The clan needs ye. Ye can’t act on what Cullen wants to do. Ye must act on what The MacDonald, Chief of Islay, should do.”

  Errol exhaled a long breath. “Ye should stay away from Rose. A lass as bonny as she will turn your own soul against ye. Ye need clarity, Cull, to figure out what’s best.”

  “Aye, stay away from her for a bit,” Broc said. “The less ye see la mademoiselle,” Broc said in a poor French accent, “the less she’ll affect your head. Maybe visit the twins for a couple nights, or even Beatrice.”

  “Bea is like a sister,” Cullen said. There were quite a few lasses on Islay who had welcomed him between their lovely legs before. His charm smoothed over would-be broken hearts, making them each feel special. But somehow the thought of touching another woman felt lacking. He frowned. Rose’s sweet, full lips and curves, displayed so beautifully through her dress today, were the only things that stirred his blood tonight.

  His mother’s words came back to him. My father thought ye to be the best leader for the clan. The one to guard us against unneeded war. Unneeded war. Bloody hell.

  “Maybe ye’re right,” Cullen said. Was he letting Rose’s beauty affect his reasoning? He wouldn’t be the fool his father had been, irresponsible and selfish. Where the cost of his father’s shortcomings was kept within their small family, any of Cullen’s shortcomings could have widespread consequences to the whole clan, now that he was chief. “I’ll keep away from her.” He looked at them both, resting his gaze on Broc. “But so will the two of ye.”

  Broc’s eyes opened wide. “Ballocks. I thought I’d finally have a chance to beat Cullen Duffie into a lass’s bed.”

  Cullen punched him in the upper arm, and Broc grunted, rubbing it. “God’s balls, Duffie.” Damnation, he was becoming more of a rogue than him. Or was Cullen being tamed by a pair of hazel eyes?

  Chapter Seven

  Beatrice MacDonald was a lichieres pautonnier, wicked and evil. Rose watched her hang on Cullen’s arm as he walked across the bailey toward the open gate. Beatrice tossed a smug grin over her shoulder toward Rose. What did the shrew need up at the castle every day anyway? Her mother had stopped visiting since Rose’s throat had healed. She touched the pink line that ringed her neck and frowned as the woman’s trilling laughter floated on the brisk wind.

  Zut! It had been four days since Cullen had sworn to protect her before the hearth of her bedroom, and he’d barely spoken a word to her. The morning afterward, Rose had descended to breakfast only to find Charlotte and her grumbling brothers. “Riding the coastline,” Cullen’s mother had said. Up before dawn and back after dark. Rose knew when a man was avoiding her, and Cullen Duffie certainly was. Had he decided that he’d spoken in folly about protecting her? That she didn’t deserve his defense?

  Errol and Broc strode out of the barn toward the steps where she stood. Looking up, Broc offered her a smile, and the two warriors changed direction to walk out of the bailey gates. Rose’s face flamed. They were all avoiding the Frenchwoman.

  She rattled off a curse in French. Pivoting on the thin heel of her slipper, Rose used both hands to push in through the doors, catching it with her foot so it wouldn’t slam. Slamming doors showed loss of control, and she still possessed plenty of control. Silence, avoidance, and frowns wouldn’t break her. She stepped through the dim entryway toward the great hall.

  “We can’t ship her over to the English,” William said, his words making Rose sink into the shadows. “They will know Cullen lied about her.”

  “She’ll be the ruin of Dunyvaig,” Farlan hissed.

  “Pish,” Charlotte’s voice came from around the corner toward the hearth. “Cull knows what he’s doing. He’ll keep the English away. And she’s definitely not some spy or French general trying to pull us further into war against England. She’s an abandoned lass in need of a home.”

  “And Cullen told Captain Taylor that he was going to marry her,” William said, thumping his fist on the table where he sat. “They’ll probably return in three weeks to see if he spoke the truth.”

  “Cullen could take her to wife,” Charlotte said. Rose flattened her palm against her rapidly beating heart. Mon Dieu. “She seems to like him.” Humph. That was before he started ignoring her to parade around with Beatrice MacDonald on his arm. Not that Rose cared where he slept, but he’d lied to her about the woman being his bedmate. Obviously, deceit was what plagued her and not the thought of him lying naked with the lunatic shrew.

  Farlan choked on his own spittle. “Marry a Frenchwoman who will bring the English to storm Islay. Bloody hell, no. I’m sure our father would rather see him dead.”

  Rose had had enough of their rudeness and stepped into the room. Farl
an saw her and started coughing again, his face turning crimson. She walked straight toward him and controlled her grin when he pressed back in his chair. Leaning down toward his ear, she spoke slowly. “Take care, monsieur. The words that come from a black heart taste bitter on the tongue. Oui?”

  Without another utterance, she walked evenly toward the hearth to pick up a needlepoint hoop, which Charlotte had given her. She wasn’t about to run to her bedroom so they could keep speaking ill of her. Keep close to your enemies. The words floated to the surface of Rose’s mind, words she’d heard recited like a lesson.

  The hearth fire kept her warm where she sat, listening to the soft pass of her needle pulling thick, colorful thread. A whip of wind shot in as the front doors opened, heavy boot-falls coming into the hall. Cullen strode in, reading an open missive.

  “Is it the English?” William stood as if he’d been waiting for a letter from King Henry himself.

  “Nay,” Cullen said without looking up. “’Tis from Tor Maclean of Aros. He requests to come visit for Christmastide.”

  “Here?” Charlotte asked and shot out of her seat, her gaze taking in the stark hall. “They wish to come here?” She walked to the hearth to pace before Rose, stopping to tsk her tongue at some dried flowers forgotten on the mantel, which she plucked off and threw in the fire.

  “Aye,” Cullen answered. His gaze settled on Rose but moved back to the missive in his hand. “Tor Maclean and his wife, her companion, and his mother—”

  “Joan Maclean is coming?” Charlotte asked and wrung her hands.

  “Aye.”

  “We need to clean this tomb out.” She flapped her arm toward the dusty tapestries and cobwebs up high along the rafters, their strings swooping across to the unused globed chandelier hanging in the middle. “Decorate it for Christmastide.”

  “Why are they coming?” Farlan asked.

  Cullen turned toward his uncles, something Rose had noticed he rarely did. Was he avoiding the sight of her as well? “Tor says there’s been a mishap at Aros and asks to visit Islay for the festivities.”

  “The English have invaded Mull,” William said.

  “He would have summoned aid,” Cullen countered. “Not asked to come make merry.” He turned away, his eyes going to the ceiling, beseeching patience.

  “God’s teeth,” Charlotte swore, but the excitement across her face tempered it. “When will they be here?”

  It was a couple days before Christmas Eve, and the winds off the Atlantic never seemed to cease, pushing clouds through the gray sky that matched the dull gray stone of Dunyvaig keep. Rose hadn’t seen anything done to prepare for the holiday.

  “They will be here within a few days and stay through twelfth night,” Cullen said.

  “Few days?” Charlotte turned in a circle. “Tell Broc and Errol that we need ladders and a Yule log. Farlan, tell Maggie Duffie to tap into her best whisky.” Her eyes widened. “Rose will need a new gown. Heavens! I will need a new gown.”

  Charlotte thumped one of the tapestries, sending a puff of dust to filter down through the air. Rose walked to another tapestry, which showed the biblical serpent tempting Eve. She ran a hand down the dust-muted colors. “I can help.” It would keep her mind from devising hateful ways to torture Cullen for lying to her about Beatrice and probably breaking his oath to protect her.

  Rose tipped her gaze to the arched ceiling. “We will definitely need ladders to catch the dust webs. And to string up garland.” She lowered her line of sight and caught Cullen watching her. Immediately he found something interesting to stare at in the hearth.

  “Aye,” Charlotte said with a groan. She turned in a tight circle. “My father had a taste for the drab and bloody.”

  “Serious and noble,” William countered.

  Charlotte snorted. “Gray and ugly, neither of which make for an inviting home. I need to talk to Ellen and Jillian.” She tossed a look back at her son where he stood by the desk. “She will need more fresh meat for the feasts.”

  Charlotte hustled off, and Cullen turned to trudge at an angle toward the doors. Before Rose could reconsider, she grabbed her shawl and strode forward herself. She was several steps ahead of him. Would he turn back or brave walking out through the entryway with her?

  Rose didn’t stop to look but pushed once more into the brisk December air. Without hesitation, she descended the steps like she knew exactly where she was headed. The horse stables, where Cullen housed his charger, were off to the left. It would be more comfortable inside out of the wind.

  Flecks of white fell from the heavy clouds, dropping to melt in the puddles she avoided. Rose paused to look up and blinked as several fell on her eyelashes. Clutching her arms, she turned in a circle, watching the pattern of falling snow filter down. Snow. She knew snow.

  “Ye will fall down if ye keep spinning.” Cullen’s voice jolted through her. Had he followed her? Her foolish heart leaped at the possibility. Or had he truly needed to venture out? She leveled her chin, giving no hint of the ridiculous hope warring against the ire within her. He stood at the bottom of the steps, probably on his way in the opposite direction. She’d save him the trouble of turning away from her.

  Without a word, she lifted her shawl to place over her head and continued her short journey toward the stables.

  “Where are ye going?” he asked, but she walked on. “Rose.”

  No matter how ruggedly handsome he was or how he made heat flow through her disloyal body, she wouldn’t reward his treason with a dutiful answer. Blast his muscular arms and powerful stride. To hell with his perfect, sensuous mouth. Damn his deep, accented voice as it formed the name he’d given her.

  The stable door whisper-creaked as she yanked it open and slid inside, closing it behind her. The smell of hay permeated the cozy interior, made warm by the heat from the horses in their stalls and a pen of wooly sheep at the far end. Small mews came from a loft, no doubt where a mother cat minded her offspring. The dirt floor was packed and free of dung. Polished leather riding tack hung on the wall with curry brushes, iron shoes, and various horse care implements, and a large sled for traversing over snow stood polished and ready off to the right.

  Rose stood for a moment and shook her hands to dispel the tremors that revealed just how much Cullen affected her. She flexed her fingers, stretching and balling them into fists. Breathing deeply of the sweet, hay-filled air, she walked the length toward the large black horse who eyed her curiously, his head over the stall door. “Bonjour,” she whispered and watched his ears twitch. She forced a smile. It helped her regain control of her temper. “You are as big as your master,” she said in French. “Are you as infuriating?”

  Rose’s calming heart leaped at the sound of the barn door sliding open. Her eyes darted about the interior. Never become trapped by a man who is not your master. The words caught at her. Master?

  Cullen leaned inside, his arms spread between two beams framing the closed door. “I asked ye where ye were going.”

  She looked up at the ceiling where the beams slanted to a point. Several birds had made their nests up high, bits of hay woven to rest in the sharp angles of timber. “I thought it rather obvious.” She lowered her gaze to his, her chin tipped higher in challenge. Mon Dieu. Why did he have to look so damn desirable? The muscles in his biceps strained against the fabric of his sleeves as he held on to the beams. She kept her features bored.

  “Am I hindering your retreat?” She gestured toward his horse.

  He crossed his arms with a frown. “I don’t retreat.”

  She laughed, her palm going to her mouth for a moment before lowering. “Perhaps not on the battlefield, monsieur, but surely that is what you have been doing these past days whenever I come close.” She tipped her head to the side. “Do you fear I will draw blood like your lady?” She held her fingers up, curled like a claw, and showed her teeth as if hissing.

  He remained at the doors, his eyes narrowing. “I did not lie to ye; Beatrice is not my lady, bedmate,
or anything. There is nothing between us.”

  And yet the shrew paraded around on his arm and flashed her smug smile whenever Rose saw them together. Everybody lies. It was up to her to guard herself against them. She flipped her hand, brushing off his comment. “Very well,” she said, both her voice and her gaze flat. She turned toward his curious horse who nuzzled her hand. She should have brought a treat.

  “Very well? Bloody hell, Rose.” His boots thudded with his weight as he neared. She stroked his horse’s nose without turning to him.

  “What the bloody hell have I done now?” she asked, imitating him. “Am I corrupting your mount with my French touch?” She peered closely at the horse, searching his long-lashed eyes. “We French damsels are known to turn horses from their masters.”

  Cullen’s hand closed around her upper arm, and he turned her, not roughly, but firmly.

  “I apologized for the garden. What has ye so furious now?”

  She looked up at him, her face defiant. “A lady is never furious.”

  “God’s balls,” Cullen swore, his arms going wide. “Ye’re seething. If ye had a dirk, my heart would surely bleed.”

  Rose’s lips tipped upward at the corners with dark mirth. “And yet you risk backing me into a corner.” And she risked baiting a mountain lion. But somehow, despite his lie, despite his shock over her accent, deep down she didn’t think he would harm her, at least not physically. A woman’s instincts were one of her most powerful defenses, and she trusted hers.

  He withdrew a step and raised his arms to cup the back of his head, his mouth pinched. The door behind him opened, letting in a swirl of snow. “Get the hell out!” Cullen yelled without turning to see who the intruder was, and the door slid quickly shut on their retreat.

  “And you accuse me of being furious,” she said quietly, her gaze direct.

  “Ye drive me there, woman.” He lowered his arms to cross his chest, his shoulders wide and strong. Arms as solid as trees. Merde.

  She swallowed against the dryness in her mouth, her stomach fluttering in girlish foolishness at his proximity. She was supposed to be sparring with him, not noticing how tall and warrior-like he was. “You’ve barely seen me over the last four days,” she said, covering her reaction with a cool face. “How could I drive you to fury?”